Charlotte's Story
by aenpaesum
Summary: ON INFINITE HIATUS Charlotte Jack's daughter never knew her father, and he never knew her. Now Charlotte, 17, has learned the truth and set off to find Jack.
1. Discovery

The night of my seventeenth birthday, my father knocked on the door of my attic bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. He looked uncharacteristically nervous. I wondered what was going on. His fingers held a cream colored envelope, with my name written across the front in a handwriting that I recognized as my mother's. How could it be, I wondered. She had died almost two years ago. Dead people have a tendency not to correspond with the living.  
  
"Is that for me, Daddy?" I asked curiously.  
  
"Yes, Charlotte. This is a letter for you."  
  
I held out my hand.  
  
"Wait, Charlotte, I have to explain. This letter is from your mother. She wrote it when you were only a few months old and told me that if anything were to ever happen to her, I was to give you this letter when you turned seventeen. I've never opened it."  
  
My heart began to race. My mother, only a memory, had written me a letter. It was from her! My father set the envelope down beside me and kissed me on the cheek.  
  
"Happy Birthday, Charlotte" he whispered.  
  
I smiled, eager to read what my mother had to tell me. The instant he was gone, I opened the envelope with a swipe of my fingernail, pulling out a thin piece of paper. Elizabeth Fallon read the heading: it was a name I hadn't spoken in almost two years. I read it apprehensively, although I had absolutely no idea what I was in for. Running my finger over the words, I whispered them aloud to myself one by one:  
  
January 1913  
  
Dearest Charlotte,  
  
If you're reading this, I must be gone. Of course, I have no idea how or when it happened. I was always afraid that something could happen to me, and so I wrote you this letter. There is a secret that I have kept from you your whole life. I am writing this letter as assurance that you will learn the truth. It is something you need to know.  
  
When I was nineteen years old, I fell in love with a wonderful young man. We met in Paris, where I was living at the time. He was beautiful and mesmerizing, and I spent some of the best times of my life with him. We were different people, however, and knew that we would never make it together. After a short yet wonderful relationship, I decided to leave Paris, and him, behind, and to return to America. He gave me this self- portrait as a parting gift, and I never saw him again. It was when I returned back to the states that I learned I was going to have a baby. Charlotte, that baby was you. I know this is a shock, darling. Please, let me try to explain.  
  
When I was only a few weeks along, I fell in love for the second time that year; however, this time it was real. George Fallon was sweet and charming. I deceived him; I told him the baby I was carrying was his. He proposed right away. I lied because I wanted you to have a real family, Charlotte, and not a father who you didn't know anything about. I don't know if I made the right decision.  
  
I am writing this letter now, even though you are only two months old. I am going to give it to George, telling him that if anything is to ever happen to me, you are to receive it on your seventeenth birthday. I figure I should write it all now, just in case. The reason that I am telling you all of this now is because someday, you may want to find your biological father. I know very little about him, and I haven't spoken to him since that day in 1912 when I left him. Charlotte, your father is named Jack Dawson. He was twenty years old and he was an artist, a wonderful artist. Charlotte, that is all I know about him. I know it's not much, and I know that this is unimaginably hard for you, but you need to know the truth. If you decide to search for him, I wish you the best of luck. And no matter what, remember that I will always love you. Happy Birthday, Charlotte.  
  
Love, Mother  
  
My memories of the next few moments are hazy and scattered, a blend of shock and disbelief. Instantaneously, however, I made up my mind to find Jack Dawson, the man who was my father. He was a part of me that I knew nothing about, save a name and a few obscure facts. How could I live with the knowledge that he was out there, as oblivious to my existence as I had been to his just a few short minutes ago? After reading my mother's letter, a feeling of complete and utter emptiness swept over me. I was losing the man who I had always thought of as my father, and in his place was a stranger. In order to regain any sense of completeness, I had to find that stranger.  
  
I placed the letter back in the envelope, it's edges now wrinkled from where I had dug my nails into it in panic and suspense. I was surprised to find something else inside, and I pulled out a slightly heavier piece of paper. It was a charcoal drawing of a man's face; nevertheless, it looked alarmingly like myself. The hair was lighter and short, but everything else was the same. Eyes, face, even posture: my father and I shared them all. Seeing him for the first time in my life only filled me with more questions. Now, I was bound to him not only by shared blood but by a shared appearance. On the bottom of the page the words For Lizzie had been scrawled. It was signed JD 3/25/1912. The portrait made me realize just how much a part of me he was, even though we had never met one another.  
  
My father's outfit, plain and worn, betrayed his social and financial status. His lips were parted in a wide smile, revealing a set of shiny white teeth. I could not help but run my finger over his face, memorizing the curves of its structure as best I could. My father. Seventeen years had torn us apart; now, I was the only thing that could reunite us. My father's face called to me, and I vowed to find him. 


	2. Ultimatum

ULTIMATUM - November 20th, 1929  
  
I knocked on the door of the study. I knew my father would be in there, preparing for trial, frantically jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad. You have to stop referring to him as your father, Charlotte. He isn't. I bit my lip nervously as I stood, waiting. How could my mother have left this for me to do? Couldn't she have told him herself? I was angry with her for laying the burden upon me. I can't do this. I can't tell him. I can't.  
  
"Come in," his voice called out from inside. I wrapped my hand around the doorknob and opened the door precariously. This could go very, very badly.  
  
"Good evening, Char," he smiled naively. He was sitting at his walnut desk, as expected, deeply engrossed in a heavy law book. Papers were scattered everywhere. "Coming to visit your old Dad?"  
  
Not exactly. "We need to talk," I began anxiously. "There's something I have to tell you. It won't be easy."  
  
"What is it, Darling?" He asked, the concern palpable in his words. "Here, come sit."  
  
I sat down in a spacious leather chair. I could barely speak. Simply handing him the letter was a Herculean task. "Y-you should read this," I stammered. I stared at the floor as he read. The seconds ticked away too slowly on the Grandfather clock in the corner. I was petrified of what his reaction would be. Would he throw me out, refuse to shelter a child who wasn't even his? What was going to happen?  
  
He finally looked up, staring straight into my eyes. "Um, I, I . . ." I searched for an explanation, but I had no idea what to say.  
  
He slowly raised a finger to his lips. "Don't say anything, Charlotte," he said gently. "You need to now that I raised you, and that you will always be a daughter to me, no matter what happens. I love you." He paused. "You can remain here and be my daughter. No one besides us has to know about this."  
  
He was being so understanding! I was overjoyed. I chided myself silently for having been so scared. How could I have underestimated this man so greatly?  
  
"Is that okay, Charlotte? Let's just forget this ever happened."  
  
"Wait a minute," I began, growing angry. This wasn't the solution I wanted. I wanted - needed - to find my real father. Did this man really expect me to go on as though nothing has happened? It was crazy, undoable. "That's not what I want!" I protested. "I want to find this man, Jack Dawson, my father! I want to know him, see him, talk to him. I have to look for him!"  
  
His face grew red with rage. "Listen to me, Charlotte. I am your father. I raised you and clothed you and fed you. The last two years I have done so by myself, with no help from anybody. I will continue to be your father, and you will have no father but me. Is that understood?"  
  
I tried to remain calm. "I love you. I'm grateful for everything you've ever given me. But can't you understand why I have to find this man? I have to try, at least. I have to know."  
  
He was irate. "You can find him if you want, Charlotte. Go look for him, for all I care! But if you do, you can never come back into this house again. If you leave, you leave for good. Take your pick, Charlotte: him or me."  
  
Instantaneously, I stood up from the chair. I never doubted what I was going to do. I had to find Jack Dawson. I had to. There were no other options. For him, for a chance to know where I came from, I would leave behind everything I had ever known, everyone who had ever cared about me. I walked around the desk and grabbed the envelope from his hand. It was the last time I ever touched him. I stared him straight in the eye. "Goodbye," I said. And with that, I turned around and walked towards the door.  
  
"Charlotte!" He called angrily. "Get back in here this instant!" I ignored his harsh words, and left the study. I went to my room and hurriedly grabbed my coat and purse. I didn't care about anything else I owned. I had to leave. I stuffed the envelope inside my purse and ran down the stairs. Nellie stared, astonished, as I opened the front door and walked out. I was never to return. 


	3. A New Day, A New Life

The sun had set. I had been wandering around Boston all day, without a notion of where to go. I mean, I knew where I would be going eventually: Paris. I was going to find my way across the ocean and go to Paris to look for my father. There was no question about it. However, first I needed a way to get there, and I needed a place to sleep tonight. Above all, I needed money. After leaving the house, I had discovered that all I had in my purse was a lipstick and twenty dollars. My dress and coat weren=t worth very much, and the only jewelry I had on was the necklace my mother had given me the year before she died. There was no way I could pawn it. In other words, I was desperate. Night had fallen and I was getting cold, and hungry too. I didn=t know what to do. Stay strong, Charlotte. Find solutions. You can do this.  
  
I had walked all the way to the Public Garden. The unforgiving November climate had destroyed any trace of flowers. I used to anticipate Springtime, waiting for them to return, blossom, be reborn. Would I even be here next spring? As I contemplated these worries, I found myself sinking onto a bench. I was so tired, so very tired. Before I knew it, I had lay down and fallen asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
When I awoke the next morning, I was understandably disoriented. Surely the hard surface beneath me wasn=t my familiar bed. It took me a few minutes to remember the events of the previous night, and to realize that I was in the park. My god, I actually slept on a bench! I congratulated myself; these were the survival skills I would need to cultivate if I were to be on my own, broke and alone. I would learn to sleep in scary, unfamiliar places; to cope with hunger; to live on hardly any money. My optimism surprised me, but it felt very real. I was ready. Paris, here I come.  
  
So what if I was resolved to make it to Paris, and prepared to face the challenges I knew lay before me? I needed a way to get there. My first impulse was to head down to Rowe=s Wharf, where all the large steamers and ships in Boston would be docked. It only took me about half and hour to walk there: through the Public Garden and the Common, down Tremont Street, past Faneuil Hall, over to the Waterfront. When I arrived, there were three or four huge steamers docked. The crowd was huge; families lugging suitcases and parcels, chatting excitedly amongst themselves. It made me believe that at least one ship was imminently departing. I was reassured to know that at least boats were leaving from here, but I still had no idea whether any of them were headed towards Paris, or, furthermore, how I would even pay for such a trip. Searching for answers, I walked towards the Information Office.  
  
AExcuse me, I=m wondering when the next boat leaves for Paris,@ I asked the clerk at the desk, a man not much older than myself.  
  
AWe don=t provide service to Paris, sweetheart. There=s no where to dock the boat.@ He looked at me as if I were the stupidest person alive.  
  
I blushed, embarrassed by my own ignorance. AWell, where do you sail to that goes relatively near there, and when do those boats leave?@  
  
  
  
AHmm, let me see.@ He opened a book in front of him and began flipping through the pages. AWhen do you want to leave?@  
  
AAs soon as possible.@  
  
AWell, we do have a ship sailing tomorrow evening for Marseilles. From there, you=d have to take the train to Paris. Anyway, we still have cabins available, if you=d like to purchase a ticket. Steerage starts at fifty dollars.@  
  
Fifty dollars! I didn=t have anywhere near that kind of money. What was I supposed to do? I felt uncomfortable asking if there was anyway I could get out of paying the money. Ask, Charlotte. Remember, survival skills. AThis is going to sound off, but is there any other way to get passage, without purchasing a ticket?@  
  
ANice wishing, Sweetheart,@ he laughed. AAll the crew positions were filled weeks ago. Besides, they wouldn=t even hire a girl like you. I=m afraid it=s buy a ticket or stay here.@  
  
AYou=re positive?@ I asked. APlease, I-I I=m desperate.@ The phrase felt funny coming out of my mouth. I longed so badly not to have to utter it.  
  
ALet me check once more,@ he said, sighing as if he was doing me a grand favor. He picked up the telephone next to him and dialed a few numbers. AWallace? This is Al. Do you have any more openings for girls for tomorrow=s departure? . . . Marseilles . . . Uh huh . . . no . . . I=m not sure . . . Superb! . . . I=ll send her right over.@ He hung up, grinning. AYou=re in luck, Sweetheart. They=re actually short a few chamber maids. You get free passage, food, the like. Unless, of course, that type of work is above you or something.@  
  
ANot in the least,@ I smiled. Yesterday I never would have guessed that I would be ecstatic about being a maid, but now I was. AThank you so much.@  
  
ANot a problem,@ he said. ANow, hurry on over there before you miss the boat. I told them you were on your way.@  
  
And I was. I really was. 


	4. Found and Lost

This chapter takes place in the MIDDLE of the story. In other words, a whole lot happens in between chapter one (Discovery) and this chapter. I'm going to go back and fill it in, I just wanted to know if people liked this.  
  
By now, Charlotte has left home and gone to Paris. She is working in a café where she meets - no surprise here - Rose Calvert. Rose is 35 now, married, and a mother of two. This chapter takes place right after Rose has told Charlotte that her maiden name was Dawson.  
  
* * *  
  
FOUND AND LOST: March 24th, 1930  
  
Dawson. Had I really heard Rose correctly? The name reverberated over and over in my head, echoing incessantly. Dawson. Dawson. Dawson. My father's name, and now, Rose's too. Was it only a coincidence? My mind told me that it was; after all, it wasn't that uncommon a name. There were probably hundreds of Dawsons out there. Yet despite my rationalizations, I couldn't stop wondering, what if? What if Rose knows my father? What if they're related?  
  
"Charlotte!" called Rose. "You haven't spoken for almost a minute, and you've been completely staring into space. Is everything all right?"  
  
Uneasy, I laughed. "I'm sorry, Rose. I was just thinking, that's all." Ask her, Char. You have to ask. How could you not? Ask her, Charlotte. "Rose, I really hate to be so intrusive, but by any chance, I mean, you probably wouldn't, but if any way, if you did . . ."  
  
"Just say it, Charlotte!" she interrupted. "What is it?"  
  
"You said your name used to be Rose Dawson."  
  
"Yes," she said. "And?"  
  
"Do you know a man named Jack Dawson?"  
  
Her blue eyes expanded to the size of saucers. I could literally see that sadness pouring into them, that look I had seen on previous occasions. What did that pain have to do with Jack Dawson? Her crimson mouth dropped open a short ways, and she raised her grief-filled eyes to stare at me.  
  
"Yes, Charlotte, I once knew a man named Jack Dawson. A very, very long time ago." She paused as if she were reminiscing about something, then chucked softly to herself at a memory. She looked at me again. "Do you know a Jack Dawson, Charlotte?"  
  
"Well, in a way," I said. "I doubt we're thinking of the same person thought. It's a rather common . . ." I trailed off as an idea popped into my mind. The portrait! It was in my purse. It was old, but surely Rose would be able to tell if it was the man she knew!  
  
"Hold on one moment, Rose!" I cried, racing to the back of the restaurant where my purse was kept. I quickly grabbed the picture and ran back to her table, thrusting the still-folded paper into her hands. "Is this him?" I asked, watching as she carefully, fearfully, unfolded it.  
  
Rose stayed relatively calm. "Oh God," she whispered. "Jack."  
  
"This is him?" I inquired excitedly. "This is the person you know?!"  
  
"Yes," she said softly. "This is Jack. Jack!" She smiled sadly. "Charlotte, where on earth did you get this?"  
  
"This man is my father, Rose."  
  
She looked hard at me. I was startled by her words. "Of course he is! Oh God, Charlotte, how could I have missed it? The eyes, the smile. The first time I saw you Charlotte, it was like being in a dream. I told myself it couldn't be. Yet you reminded me so much of him." She looked at me in awe. "You're Jack's daughter."  
  
"I guess I am," I told her. "You see, I never met my father. I never knew that the man who raised me wasn't my real father. Last November, however, on my birthday, that man, that man who I thought was my father, gave me a letter from my mother. She died when I was twelve. Anyway, the letter said that my real father - that's Jack - live in Paris last my mother knew. She met him here, but she returned to the states before she even knew she was pregnant. She never saw or heard from my father again. That's all I know about him. That and the fact that he was a wonderful artist. All I have of him is this self-portrait he gave my mother before she left. I came here, to Paris, to find him. It was all dead ends- until now. Rose, are you related to him? Do you know where he is? Do you have a city, an address anything?"  
  
Her face sank. "Charlotte, I don't know how to say this. Jack died almost eighteen years ago."  
  
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no, no, no" Every cell in my body hurt with indescribable force. You never even knew him, Charlotte. How can you grieve for someone who never even knew, someone who did know you either? Still, my heart felt like a boulder inside my chest; my insides felt ragged and raw. And then it hit me: I was an orphan. Parentless. First my mother and now my father. Both of them, gone.  
  
"He's dead? Are you sure?" I was in shock. Anger rushed through my veins. I had come all the way to Paris to find my father. I had left everything I had ever known. I hadn't found him, but today, it had seemed like finally, my luck was about to change. Now, he was dead. I would never see him. My father. Never. Dead.  
  
"I was there," stated Rose simply, calmly. "I was there, Charlotte."  
  
"How did it happen, Rose?" I asked, trying to act composed. Stay calm, Charlotte. Like you did when Mummy died. Don't cry, Charlotte. Please don't cry.  
  
Rose took a deep breath, and smiled at me. The sadness in her eyes had been replaced with bravery. "I tell you Charlotte. But before I tell you how he died, I need to tell you how he lived. He was an amazing man, your father. I loved him, god, how I loved him." She sighed, and smiled courageously. "Can you take your break now, Charlotte? It's time for you to know who your father was." 


	5. Rose's Story: Part One

I've used a whole lot of quotes from Titanic in this part, all of which belong to James Cameron. Some of the stuff was in the script but got cut from the movie; I've still included it.  
  
ROSE'S STORY: BEGINNINGS  
  
I left work, not even caring whether or not I had permission to go on break. Rose put some money on the table and we emerged from the café. She chose not to walk by the Seine, as I suggested, explaining, "I have a thing with water. You'll understand soon enough." Instead, we headed for the Jardin de Tuilleries, promenading under the trees. I let Rose tell her story  
  
"I was born in 1895, into one of the richest families in Philadelphia. My great-grandfather had established an incredibly successful banking company, which my father eventually came to run. He married my mother and soon afterwards, I was born. They named me Rose Victoria Dewitt Bukater."  
  
So she wasn't a Dawson by birth. She had become one later. That could only mean . . . Stop playing guessing games, Charlotte. Let her tell the story.  
  
"I was a society girl, Charlotte. I attended soirees and charm school and countless other deathly-boring events. I could act well mannered of course, and ladylike, but inside, all I ever wanted to escape. I felt stifled, as though I were about to suffocate. I hated them. I hated it all. The pretension, the formality, the stiffness, the money. I wanted freedom; I wanted to experience life. I thought that perhaps if I could go to college, I would get a chance to break free."  
  
Freedom. Wasn't that what we were all looking for?  
  
"But when I was sixteen, my father passed away. He went to bed and never woke back up. I grieved for him, but it was my mother who was truly inconsolable. Of course, my mother was shallow and heartless; she cried not so much because my father was dead, but because we were left with nothing but debt. She was afraid that she would have to become a seamstress, that she would work. 'Can you imagine it, Rosie?' she'd sob. 'I, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, working.!' She didn't know what we would do. Then, at one of the balls, we were introduced to the Hockleys. That was when everything changed."  
  
A parent dead. That was something I knew enough about. But the engagement, the money . . . I was grateful that I had never had to go through any of that.  
  
"Caledon Hockley was eight years my senior. His father, Nathan Hockley, was a Pittsburgh steel tycoon. I sparked Cal's interest, which in turn sparked my mother's interest. If I could marry into their wealth, our problems would be solved. Lucky for her, Cal began to court me. Within weeks, my mother and he had arranged our engagement. I was heartbroken. I wanted to die."  
  
"What I believed to be my final time of happiness was the trip Cal, Mother, and I took to Europe that winter. It was 1912 then, and I was seventeen. I pushed aside all thoughts of my impending marriage, my inevitable imprisonment, and did my best to enjoy the sights around me. I've always loved it here, you see. Paris, especially. Last time I was here, Cal purchased a number of Picasso's for me. He was rather unheard of at the time. 'He won't amount to a thing, trust me,' Cal would say. He was more wrong than he knew."  
  
Picasso had come into the café last week. It wasn't that unusual. He liked his coffee black. He called me Mademoiselle Charlotte. Mademoiselle Charlotte, permettez-moi de vous peinter, s'il vous plait. He always asked; I always declined. Nonetheless, he was one of my favorite customers.  
  
"Anyway, I digress. By April, we were preparing to return to America. The wedding invitations had been sent out, and we were holding an engagement gala later that month. Cal had booked us passage on what everyone thought was the grandest ship in the world - the Titanic."  
  
Titanic. The unsinkable ship had sunk on her maiden voyage, months before my birth. My mother once told me that the day the ship sank was the day she discovered she was pregnant with me. Fifteen hundred people perished, she had said, but all I could think about was one little person who would live.  
  
Rose continued. "Everything about the Titanic, right down to the last rivet, was brand new. It's been 18 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The beds had never been slept in. I was a spoiled brat at the time - at least your father thought so - and so I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I wasn't as dazzled by the great ship as everyone else. They all called it the Ship of Dreams. It was the ship of dreams . . . to everyone else. To me it was a slave ship, taking me back to America in chains. Outwardly I was everything a well brought up girl should be. Inside, I was screaming. Every moment we sailed brought me farther and farther away from the places I loved and closer to Philadelphia, to Cal, to marriage. I sulked until I couldn't take it any longer. Suddenly, at dinner one night, all my emotions began to overcome me. . I sat there, staring at my plate, barely listening to the inconsequential babble around me. I remember taking the little crab fork and stabbing my hand, under the table, until I bled. I need pain to be tangible."  
  
"My entire world felt wrong to me that night. I saw my whole life as if I'd already lived it . . . An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches . . . always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared . . . or even noticed. The world was closing in on me. I had to get out. Crazy, angry, hating myself and my life, I ran towards the stern of the ship. I wanted to die. I climbed over the railing and was about to jump. Then the most incredible thing happened."  
  
Rose was becoming choked up at the memories, but she swallowed hard and continued.  
  
"I heard a voice behind me. I'll never forget the words. 'Don't do it,' he said. I turned my head and saw a young man standing a few feet behind me. I was angry at him and told him to stand back, not to come any closer. How dare he interfere with me? His worn clothes instantly told me that he was poor, yet he was very handsome. He had dirty blonde hair and clear, luminous eyes. He was twenty years old. He told me to take his hand, that he would pull me back in. I refused, telling him to go away. He said, 'I can't. I'm involved now. If you let go I have to jump in after you.' Well, he began to undo his boots and remove his jacket. He really acted like he would have gone in after me. He told me that he wasn't as concerned about the fall as he was about the coldness of the water. 'Water that cold,' he said, 'like right down there, it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing all over your body. You can't breath, you can't think... least not about anything but the pain.'"  
  
Who is this mystery man, this hero appearing out of the shadows? Where is my father in all of this? Rose's story feels epic to me; it is laced with the excitement I find only in novels.  
  
"In retrospect," said Rose, "I guess it's all very ironic. Anyway, he asked if I get him off the hook and come back over the edge of the railing. I told him he was crazy. He looked at me and said, "That's what everybody says. But with all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship.' No one had ever spoken to me so rudely. It was quite refreshing." She laughed. "He told me to give him my hand. For the first time in months, I felt like someone actually cared about me. Someone cared, and that was enough to live for. I took his hand and turned to face him. He introduced himself as Jack Dawson."  
  
Jack Dawson. My father. This man is my father. Was my father. He had saved her life, pulled her back.  
  
"I began to climb back over the side of the ship. Then suddenly, my dress became caught on the railing, and I slipped. I was dangling hundreds of feet over the freezing water, and he held me only by the arm. I began to scream for my life. 'I won't let go,' promised Jack. 'I've got you.' Slowly he helped pull my back up. I collapsed on top him, and we both fell backwards onto the deck. My screams had alerted people, and when they saw him, the stereotypical penniless person, lying on top of a first-class passenger like me, with me clearly shaken up, they spared no time in arresting him. When Cal arrived, he was infuriated. 'What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancé?' He cried."  
  
I hate this Cal. He's so controlling. How dare he speak to my father in such a way? Can't he understand that Jack was just saving her life?  
  
I fumbled for an excuse, explaining to Cal that I had been leaning over the railing to look at the propellers, and had slipped, and that Mr. Dawson had saved me. I didn't want Cal to know that I had been about to kill myself. Jack was graceful enough to agree with my story. The officer proclaimed him a hero. He was. As Cal and I left the deck, one of the officers suggested giving Jack something for saving my life. Cal gave him twenty dollars, which was worth a lot more then than it was now. I protested the measly gift, and so Cal invited Jack to join us for dinner the following night. We returned to our suite. I was cold, but I felt as if somehow my life had changed. Something was different. I had met Jack. It was our beginning."  
  
It was their beginning. Jack and Rose. My father, and my friend.  
  
To be continued . . .  
  
. 


End file.
